sheepfilms
JBB: An Artblog!
art blog(derogatory)
Kiana Khansmith
Cosimo Galluzzi
Three Goblin Art
izzy's playlists!
Jules of Nature
No title available
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Origami Around
trying on a metaphor
Sade Olutola
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Cosmic Funnies
⁂
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Show & Tell
DEAR READER
Claire Keane
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Belgium
seen from Brazil
seen from Belgium
seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
@skyhaunts
like for a starter ✨
SEPTEMBER 17, 1995. EMILY SAYS SHE SAW A FLYING SAUCER. A YEAR AGO I WOULD’VE LAUGHED. TONIGHT WE’RE LOCKING OUR DOORS. indie original character inspired by the events at skinwalker ranch.
WHAT BODY PART ARE YOU ?
LUNGS.
breathe in. the ability to breathe is almost completely reflexive, and like most things, it comes to you naturally, with little effort or meaning. many of the diseases that affect the lungs are hereditary, is there some unknown family trauma there? something someone wasn’t telling you? if we only inhale, we die. if we only exhale, we die. we need both. you have mastered that tactful dance, at least, until something unexpected comes knocking. something that steals your breath away, that pries your oh so precious air from your lungs and leaves you cold, winded and alone. a collapsed lung cannot kill you, but it aches more than broken bone, it’s sticky and bloody and cloying. you can recover though. you always have. breathe out.
tagged here. tagging: any witnesses to this post
replying to drafts from 2 years ago because i want to write Now and nobody can stop me!!!!
@lifehaunts / here.
𝐡𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, gabby’s usual cue that the day isn’t going quite well. she went to the corner store for two things : diet pepsi and sour gummy worms. of course, that never really happens, as she really just overloads on snacks. just in case she gets hungry later on, obviously. though, the blonde fails in utilizing her body to hold things. as she leans down to grab her drinks, everything falls in an instance, including herself. her face flushed and mortified, she looks up at the man and nods, taking his hand rather quickly. “ thank you, ” she mumbles hoarsely, shaking her hand. “ it’s just been one of those days … a real shit day … do you have those days where everything just falls right outta your hands? ”
"not necessarily." as soon as she seems steady on her feet, timothy eyes the scattered aftermath before leaning over to pick up the items closest to him. he may not relate to literal falling—can't remember the last time he tripped over himself, but he knows resignation when he sees it. hell, he feels it. a long day at the diner. a longer rest of the day at home, waiting for him, looming. that need to pause and decompress, even for a breath, is familiar enough to make him put his own bullshit on hold to help out a stranger.
"but i have had some real shit days. even without falling and losing my," a glance over the items he's collected, "snacks." he passes a sympathetic look to the woman. "at least you've got gummy worms to help. those usually turn the shit days into moderately decent."
left alone - fiona apple / geoff mcfetridge / does the universe fight for souls to be together? - jamie varon
@lifehaunts / from here.
𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲, a shit-eating smirk to match. she was the type to relish in proving a point, so much so that they were found in loretta’s diner late at night trying to do just that. “ i promised i wouldn’t say it --- but you know what i’m thinking. ” a high pitched ‘i told you so’ rings clear in her conscious for a moment. “ garlic powder is the secret ingredient to the best egg sandwich ever. but it’s gotta stay a secret, you can’t just go on and tell everyone! ”
“yeah, yeah,” he grumbles and rolls his eyes. though for the first time in timothy’s illustrious two-year career at loretta’s, both are done with a poorly suppressed grin. anyone else in this damn diner and he wouldn’t have conceded to begin with, but he’ll resign himself to humility just this once. a good sandwich is a good sandwich.
“trust me, i don’t plan on it,” said between bites from his cut of the sandwich. “if loretta finds out about seasoning, we might actually get people coming in here for the food. last thing i want to do around here is my job.”
ireworn:
if spencer knew this would happen, she wouldn’t have agreed to enter his sad excuse for a pick up truck. perhaps she wouldn’t have decided to be nice for once. perhaps she would’ve stayed home altogether but there’s nothing she can do about it now. unlike him, she essentially sprawls in the tiny booth, legs resting on the seat. a unique perk of petite stature. her position is more so to rub it in his face than anything else. with a gaze trained on the ceiling, she indulges on small hostess cupcakes, wondering if this is a cruel punishment from the universe. the cupcakes also settle the anger she has towards timothy and his piece of shit alternator. so much for comradery.
there’s a moment of silence before his voice breaks it. her features transform into its usual scowl. ”i don’t think any cup of coffee is worse than the shit we sell. it’s literally tar in a mug.” although the gas station’s branded blend smells scarily similar to the complete and utter shit back at the diner. and judging by his reaction, it tastes similar too. regular exclusive blend, my ass, the girl grumbles while glancing down at the ugly coffee cup.
“why do you always insist on making my try the nattiest shit? i know you have horrible taste but come on.” she hasn’t forgotten their last scenario with his horrid, cheap cigarettes. in fact, it’s still haunting her. she wonders if there’s something seriously wrong with timothy’s taste buds… or his brain. “i’m guessing it’s like your cigs. absolute garbage,” she adds with a loud scoff. despite her words, spencer reluctantly grabs the coffee cup. the smell of the now lukewarm tar wafts around nose. she takes a deep breath, sipping before features showcase nothing but a look of disgust. curse him for this. curse her curiosity. curse her inability to turn down a challenge. “i’m convinced this is pure gasoline.” she quickly drinks water but the aftertaste lingers. unfortunately.
“fuck you, those cigarettes are good.” it’s mumbled, thrown right into the middle of her sentence before she can even finish the bage in garbage. there’s no bite to it, the phrase more punchline than insult. timothy lost all rights to any genuine fuck you’s the second his truck died on them. besides, he can’t find it in himself to be offended over her telling the truth. he’s definitely two for two when it comes to goading spencer into trying the nattiest shit—though he’s more partial to his cigarettes than whatever the hell this place is trying to push on its customers.
he settles into his seat as she grabs the coffee cup, gaze expectant as he watches. and yeah, the whole thing unfolds exactly how he’d imagined, but he still gets a kick out of the disgust written on her features. it almost makes up for being stranded at a gas station with bluetooth ceiling speakers and a cashier too fond of madonna’s greatest hits (holiday, music, borderline—twice, all in the past fifteen minutes).
“right?” for the first time since plopping himself in the booth, he laughs, taking the coffee cup back when she ditches it for water. “some real big competition from regular exclusive blend for shittiest cup of joe in town. somebody should warn loretta.” the jab at their boss comes with a grin that’s soon covered by the lid of the paper cup. it may be dirt water at best, but it cost a full dollar, and he has nothing but time until somebody picks them up—he’s drinking the coffee. at least the sugar wafers he got make it a little bearable. the artificial sweetness and unholy bitterness almost cancel each other out if he times his bites and sips just right.
he’s mid-chew when he pauses to glare at the cashier over spencer’s shoulder as borderline plays for a third time. a sip of coffee washes it down before his gaze shifts to the table, grin gone and scowl in its place.
“i’m gonna lose my fucking mind before triple a gets here.”
autumnnal:
* 𝐀𝐒𝐊 ——— @skyhaunts / listen to you and your fancy language.
❝ okay, jerk - face! ❞ shamelessly jejune, she is shrouded in honeybee curls as she jerks to life, flourishing shakes of her head in response to his mumbling — as if what she’d said was to be taken as a joke at her own expense, visibly deflating thereafter. gloss’d pages of favored magazine is burrowed to bosom, wrinkle of her brow protuberant, vying ‘side the pastel - adorned janes just beyond the pages. ❝ hey, this stuff is serious. maybe if you actually read something once in awhile, you’d get it. it’s none of your business anyway, it’s my copy. ❞
he tries not to laugh, but somewhere between jerk-face and reading something once in awhile, his mouth twists, uneven and taut, like he’s barely holding on to his amusement. in his defense, he doesn’t let loose some mocking guffaw, just an exhale that’s a little too shaky to be anything but a chuckle. really, he’d stifle it if he could, but the whole thing reminds him too much of his kid sister in the worst of her teenybopper days (and maybe he is a jerk-face if this reaction is nothing new to him).
“alright, hey—” now comes the raise of hands (and eyebrows) as he tries to backtrack without spilling into another chuckle. “i’m sorry, okay? you’re right. i don’t know anything about the grave importance of—” he squints, trying to eye the page covered in her arms and failing to make out any of the words, settling on a flat and uncertain: “summer fashion trends.”
and the great thing about the few times he speaks without thinking is that he starts to regret it almost immediately. this time takes a little longer before the feeling creeps in, but then it’s there, when he recognizes a defensiveness that’s more reminiscent of himself than his sister, that need to sting back when stung. his hands fall back to his sides, the laughter fades from his face, and he feels like an asshole.
if he were a better person, he might shell out a real apology instead of diverting the subject—but again, in his defense, timothy at least has the decency to sound apologetic as he diverts.
“so…” he nods to the magazine, “what’s the verdict for this summer? are florals making a comeback?”
KEANU REEVES in PERMANENT RECORD (1988) dir. MARISA SILVER
pistollips:
she can’t help but grin. ❝ y’ain’t gotta apologize. you’re not the first, you won’t be the last .. ❞ and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like it. it just further proves to her that she’s got nothing to worry about. excitedly, atty sits down across from him, grabs about three fries and shoves them in her mouth. even if she were offended, that’s one way to make it up to her; french fries.
❝ you’re exactly who i was expecting. ❞ long hair and band tees are a common occurrence, but usually at parties. there’s a different air about him than those guys, however. something that tells her she can trust him, for whatever reason, and she likes to go with those first impression gut feelings.
she’s stocked up on whatever he could need, but she already digs around in her purse, retrieves a pink, opaque baggie with a licensed cat adoring a ribbon on its ear on the front. the bottom specifies 1oz, the particular shade of pink tells her the strain. she’s got it all memorized and organized. the bag is slid across the table. ❝ fruity pebbles. a freebie for a newbie. anything else, ❞ cocaine, molly, heroin, whatever his preference, ❝ gets a discount, but i usually don’t do samples for those. ❞ most drug dealers don’t do samples period, but it’s not like she does this fully for profit anyway.
he doesn’t exactly laugh, but the way his lips twitch feels like a close second. that’s fair, he all but says with the mirth swimming in his gaze. timothy can admit he looks like he crawled off the set of a public service announcement, some mid-2000s advertising company’s perfect warning of what not to be, shaggy hair and all, so he doesn’t pretend to be offended.
instead, he watches as she rummages through her purse, stuffing a few more fries into his face until a much smaller bag comes into view. it’s cute, clearly matches the aesthetic she has going (brand, he realizes belatedly. it’s her brand.), and grabs his attention. hearing the word freebie is what keeps that attention. in the span of however many seconds it takes for her to pull out the bag and subsequently explain the price of said bag, timothy has decided that coworker dave is exceptionally shitty at descriptions. sure, he’s known this from the moment that man opened his mouth and set everything into motion, but now he really knows. because no one with a basic understanding of what sells would leave out discounts and freebies when pitching a dealer—especially when their pitch is only a sentence long.
“shit,” a startled chuckle falls as his gaze darts to the blonde, “thanks.” there’s a flash of a widening smile, abrupt but soft, as he picks up the bag. “if i’d known about the freebie, i would’ve bought you a burger too.” it sounds like a joke, it’s meant to be a joke, but there’s some truth to it. timothy used to treat his old dealer to fries and snacks sometimes, whenever he showed up with food for himself, and that guy never cut prices. samples weren’t even on the table. in the few minutes since he’s met her, atty is already leagues above his last dealer, and fries feel a little cheap in retrospect.
he glances over the bag again before stuffing it in his coat pocket.
he’s still smiling as he folds his arms atop the table; it’s subtle now, back to the small quirk from before. their table is to the side of the store, away from fluorescent lights and prying eyes—and the few eyes present wouldn’t bother prying. nobody here really cares what anyone else is doing, so he doesn’t bother with whispering or murmuring or any conspicuous huddling when he continues. if his voice lowers, it’s only by a fraction, just enough that it won’t carry to anybody who doesn’t need to hear it. “if you’ve got coke, i’ll take whatever i can get for forty.”
@goxinsane 💝
he refills her cup without being asked. it’s only half-empty when he comes back around, maybe less, favoritism plain for everyone to see. the rest of the diner has to glare and cough their way into catching his attention, then glare and cough some more to keep it when timothy ignores them. hopefully enough people will complain for management to finally get their shit together and hire another waitress instead of sticking him out front when they’re down a person. he doesn’t mind being stingy with refills until they do.
timothy sets a mug for himself down on the table and slides into the booth. he fills up his mug and settles into his seat before placing the coffee pot on the table too. something he’d probably get another round of glares for if the diner hadn’t nearly cleared out in the minutes leading up to his break. the lunch rush is long over, just a few people with odd hours and nowhere better to be left now—nobody who’s going to complain about their cups being three-fourths empty, even if rightfully so. he crosses his arms atop the table and leans forward, almost hunched over his coffee as he looks at leona seated across from him.
“it’s finally starting to feel like fall.” there’s a small curl of his lips as he shakes off the last few hours of half-hearted greetings and memorizing orders. “my mom and emily plan on making pumpkin pie from scratch soon. making a big deal out of it and everything.” he stares down at his coffee before grabbing a creamer from the small bowl. “they wanted me to invite you, if you’d like to bake with us.” he opens the package, pours it in, and grabs another one. “they offered to make gingerbread cookies, too. for the boys.” a slight shrug as he glances back up. “maybe this weekend, or the next — if you’re free for either. if not, we’ll still be baking anyway, i can drop something off for you.”
Pavement - Harness Your Hopes
@pistollips / liked.
“you sell?” he shouldn’t be surprised. when timothy asked for recommendations after his usual dealer moved across state lines, his coworker readily supplied a time and a place. only a vague idea of where to find somebody and a vaguer idea of how that somebody looked. just look for pink, they said, as if that meant anything to him. now, sitting outside a convenience store, at one of those round, metal tables where the seats are connected, he gets it. an eyebrow raises immediately after recognition flashes across his features, but yeah, he gets it.
“sorry — the way dave spoke about you, i was expecting someone...” different. even with her matching the curt description exactly, and even with him refusing to make any assumptions, she’s still managed to dodge every expectation he didn’t know he had. not necessarily a bad thing. says more about him than anything else, he knows, so he compartmentalizes whatever part of him is surprised by blondes in bubblegum pink selling drugs, shoves it aside, and shrugs. raised brow fades to sheepish smile, and he pushes a to-go container of french fries to the center of the table, lid open. a greeting for her and an excuse for anybody looking to complain about him loitering past sunset.
“i don’t know what i was expecting,” he plucks a fry for himself. “doesn’t matter.”
@ireworn
“you know, this might be the one cup of coffee that’s worse than the shit we sell.” technically, they’re not hanging out. maybe that had been their intention twenty minutes ago—driving down dirt roads through the empty town for some hole-in-the-wall bar—but his alternator put a stop to that while making a hearty dent in their attempt at comradery. maybe it’s a sign, timothy had grumbled aloud while pulling into the gas station parking lot. the plan had been to make good on their beer pong bets, carpooling in timothy’s once-trusted pickup truck after a late night shift to a bar on the outskirts of town (all bars were on the outskirts, as if locating them as far as possible from the heart of everything would make this town any less of a shithole).
now they’re stuck in some gas station near the outskirts of town but not close enough to justify walking the last mile to the bar and playing a round anyway. by the time they got back, whatever tow truck his insurance people called would have probably made off with his truck and they’d have to call somebody to pick them up. which is worse than waiting in the aforementioned gas station and drinking stale coffee because the only people timothy could call would be a) his father or b) his sister, and one of them is already a pain in the ass without being asked for favors while the other one doesn’t have a license.
so he’s dealing with the repercussions of trying to be nice and doing something fun with spencer by drinking a large cup of what this gas station calls their regular exclusive blend, sans cream or sugar. he’s also seated in one of those tiny booths in the restaurant section of the station that doesn’t have room for anybody over five foot four to sit sideways and rest their legs on the seat. an apt atonement, if anybody asked him.
“it’s fucking terrible.” he nudges the coffee cup towards her. “try it.”
“Tired, my love, so fuckn’ tired”
Painting By: Malcom T. Liepke’s.
Photo: Bob Dylan & Joan Beaz 1965.
